


The Path Is Dark

by keptin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: In Your Heart Shall Burn, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptin/pseuds/keptin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Haven is destroyed, Lahalaan tries to find the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Path Is Dark

**Author's Note:**

> tw for brief accidental misgendering (basically lahalaan never corrected anyone about his pronouns at haven)

Disoriented. Bloody. Vision swimming, while relentless sheets of snow further obscured his sight. Lahalaan stumbled, his foot catching on a dry root and sending him sprawling again. He was too exhausted to shiver now. Between sealing the Breach, then the festivities back at Haven, then the attack… not to mention the entire mountain falling on him. He barely knew to question how he was still alive.

It was so fucking freezing. He’d never noticed how cold the Frostbacks were when Haven was still standing, when he could easily go to the tavern and get something to drink, or talk with Varric by a fire, or with Blackwall by the blacksmith. Maybe half the warmth was the company; even though Lahalaan had started out a prisoner, he had soon proven himself to Cassandra and the others, and had become part of the little settlement. And now… that was all gone, now. Smashed to splinters under heaps of rocks and snow. Somewhere in that ruin, he knew, was the little fox figurine his older sister had given him, the one he had named himself after just before leaving for the Conclave. Like him, it had been buried.

He coughed, the frigid air pulling at his lungs, seeming to freeze his breath in his chest. For a moment the thought occurred to him that he wouldn’t survive this; he would walk as far as he could, but no matter how far he got or how long he walked, he would die out here, alone, snow falling to eventually cover his body. The others wouldn’t find him until the spring thaw, if they ever returned to this valley. The thought was sad, but not unrealistic, and Lahalaan sighed, wishing he was a mage so that he could conjure a fire in his hands, or maybe melt the snow in his path so that it would be easier to walk.

Why was he even continuing? It wasn’t like it would get him anywhere. He had no idea how long he had been out, and the others could be miles ahead of him by now. It was all useless, and Lahalaan laughed bitterly at the irony of it all; a Dalish elf, so used to traveling through all sorts of weather with his clan. A mercenary. A fucking warrior, who had gone through the Fade and fallen through the Breach, taken down by a blizzard. That thought alone spurred him to keep stumbling on blindly, wading through knee-deep snow as if it were a bog. 

And then, he could go no further. A minute, an hour, a day later, he had no idea; one wrong step on a rock, buried underneath grey snow, and he lost his balance, falling to his knees and sinking, his eyes slipping closed. If this was death, then he would shake Falon’din’s hand and ask what took him so long.

“There, over there!”

If that was truly Falon’din, he had a lot of gall, masquerading as the Commander. Lahalaan slumped even more into the snow, and then there was something—hands, under his armpits, hauling him to his feet, and then lifting him entirely when it was clear he couldn’t move anymore. The solidity of an iron breastplate against his cheek—cold, but signifying a greater comfort. He groaned a little, his voice sounding very small.

“Lavellan?” That was Cassandra’s voice, several paces back as she caught up with Lahalaan and his now-protector. “Is…?”

“Alive, yes,” Cullen’s voice answered, his arms shifting Lahalaan closer against his chest. “But… freezing. We need to hurry, get her to Mother Giselle.”

Lahalaan was moved briefly, and the warm weight of something thick and fluffy settled around him. Cullen gathered him up again, his teeth chattering; Lahalaan pressed his cold nose against whatever it was and inhaled deeply.

“That’s my cloak you’re sniffing,” Cullen said, a lilt in his voice that couldn’t entirely mask how tense he was, and-- well, that explained why it smelled like wet dog. They were on the move now, as quick as they could manage through the snow. He could hear Cassandra a ways ahead of them, probably hurrying to alert the others so that a cot could be prepared. Despite everything—or, perhaps, because of everything—Lahalaan felt almost as if time had stopped everywhere else except for in this little pocket that included himself, Cullen, Cassandra, and the others, wherever they were.

He felt safe.

“No, wait, you need to stay awake.”

Cullen’s voice cut through the fog that had settled over Lahalaan’s mind, and he cracked one eye open, looking up at the Commander blearily. Cullen offered a stiff smile back.

“Maker… when we get back to camp,” he said, sounding strained. “First you fell form the Breach, now you survive a mountain collapsing on top of you. You bought us time to escape, you could have died…”

“Didn’t.” It was the first word Lahalaan had spoken since his chat with Corypheus, and his voice sounded like a frozen block of ice stuck in his throat. It was appalling, really. But it was a word, nonetheless, and Cullen looked relieved. Somewhat relieved.

He dozed off, lulled to sleep by the rocking motion as Cullen carried him. What woke him again was Sera’s voice, a shrill cry of either relief or shock or, more likely, a mix of both. Then Cullen’s, much closer and deeper.

“She’s here!” he called. Lahalaan frowned, even in the midst of rising hope.

“N… no,” he breathed, his words slurring a little. “ _He._ He’s…”

Then he was out again, and Cullen adjusted his arms again around Lavellan, holding the thin form closer to his chest.

“He’s here,” he corrected himself. “We found him.”

He hurried over to the closest tent, setting Lahalaan down on a spare cot. Mother Giselle was immediately at his side, removing his heavy armor as gently as she could and replacing it with soft garments and blankets. A ghostly form, solid but pale as if not entirely there—the boy who had appeared in the War Room, Cullen realized—stood by the back of the tent.

“Stumbling, slipping, sprawling,” he whispered. “A ground that drops like a rug pulled out form under bare feet. Falling for so long…”

He looks up at Cullen form under the brim of his hat, then tilts his chin at Lahalaan, who seems to be sleeping peacefully now that he—he, this time, nobody will make the same mistake—is being tended to.

“Being caught was a nice surprise.”


End file.
